Some More
by StumblingAlong
Summary: A shorts series of prompts for OQ Smut Week 2015. Day 2: Can't resist.


**(A/N: Happy OQ Smut Week! How fantastic is this so far? I'm loving all the positively filthy fics and raunchy artwork from this incredibly talented fandom. Bravo to the lovely ladies who organized such a fun and entertaining week and to all those participating!**

 **So, as this is posted on Day 2, obviously I'm not participating in every day, but I am hoping to accomplish a few, at least. So I hope you enjoy and thank you to anyone who reads.**

 **This should go without saying, but REALLY, REALLY M. lol.**

 **Disclaimer: I do not own** _ **Once Upon A Time**_ **or its characters, all rights belong to the creators and ABC. This is written purely for fun.)**

* * *

Robin wakes under heavy nightfall, cloaked in a film of cold sweat, sounds of leaves rustling outside his tent and soft snores emitting from his wife inside his tent assaulting his ears.

 _His wife._

He glances down at Marian, her back facing him as she soundly sleeps, with her hair too curly across the pillow and her skin too tan in the slice of moonlight filtering in through a tear in the canvas fabric from one of Little John's stray arrows- needless to say, this is not the appearance that has been visiting his dreaming state, while haunting his thoughts in the waking world.

He nibbles at his bottom lip as his eyes remain focused on Marian, the woman who had returned from beyond the grave about two fortnights ago, still as in love, committed, and bound to him as she was the day she would have drawn her last breath. Only now she was a stranger, not only in a realm that Robin had only just begun to grasp for himself, but she has been a stranger in his life, in his heart, as well.

Swallowing a mass of guilt, regret, and, surprisingly, exhilaration, that has balled in his throat, he slips quietly out of the shelter that houses the woman who owns him, while he is being called towards the woman he truly _belongs_ to.

He rushes his coat on over his arms and shoulders, a defense against the crisp, night air in Storybrooke, and trudges through the Merry Men camp, careful to keep his steps across the forest floor quiet as he walks away, ensconcing himself in the shadows of the moonlit sky and the shade of the trees surrounding him.

When he has decently distanced himself, he fishes into his jacket pocket, retrieving his cell phone. A device he was still skeptical of, but Regina had been the one who convinced him to own one, that is was this realm's easiest mode of communication and it would come to be an asset to have with him.

She was right.

 _Regina._

Even just thinking of her name, calling her image in his mind, sends a shiver crawling up his extremities, his heart thumping harshly against the confines of his chest, and, if a bit shamefully, has him hardening below his waist.

He misses her, _yearns_ for her, craves her sharp wit, her nimble mind, and her bold and audacious spirit, as well as her soft, ebony tresses that tickle his skin, her plump, inviting lips teasing his own, and her taut, curvaceous figure tantalizing to his vision.

But he feels the absence of her heart the most. Resilient and strong, vulnerable and ever expanding in capacity, with a physical, dark discoloration, but able to emit the brightest and most beautiful love he has witnessed, with the exception of children like Roland.

And suddenly his hands are acting as if independent to his body, bringing the phone up, pressing the button that can instantly connect him to her (physically, that is, as he is already tethered to her through his heart- ever since he held hers in his hands), and placing it against his face, and releasing a ragged breath that had been imprisoned since he last saw or spoke to her nearly a month ago.

The phone rings.

Once (It is so late, what if he wakes her? What if he disrupts her rest or discovers that she is awake and entertaining company?), two (Who is he too be ill from the idea of her being with another? He was the one who chose to uphold his resurrected vows, to honor the code he lives by- one he has continuously jeopardized by being in love with the one who awaits on the other end of the line, instead of back at camp), three…

"Robin?"

 _Oh._

He has also missed her voice, has always adored it, a melodic mixture of different tones, from a gravel texture to a deep, silky caress, and it pains him how he can hear the hesitance in her articulation now. She growls, more forceful, more urgent, "Robin? Are you okay?"

"No, no I'm not," He blurts out, his admittance tumbling forth from his mouth uncontrollably and he needs to clarify, needs to refine his words before thoughts of him or Roland being injured conjure in her mind. No, he is not the brave, wounded warrior of justice he had once been and, thankfully, his son is deep in slumber, his innocence immune to his father's inner turmoil as he is now nothing but a selfish, heart-wrenched sod, near tears as he whispers, "I… I miss you."

He doesn't want her to say anything, is cowardly and can't bear to hear her banish and scold him, not when he is finally relishing in her rhythmic breathing, so he spits out the words as quickly as he can, "I know that calling you, now, like this, I know it's wrong and for that I apologize, but I have no one else I can say this to and I had to say the words, I _had_ to: I miss you."

"You have a camp full of men, men who are closer to you than family, you can't confide in any of them?"

He cannot begrudge the bitterness in her tone- Hell, he's responsible for it, but he also cannot risk this moment ending, no matter how terse, because at least she is here, in a way. He explains, choosing his words carefully, "Those men are also close to Marian, who are so thrilled over her return…"

"And you aren't?"

"I am happy my son has his mother." For that, if it is the only thing, he is certain of, though as he continues, "I had wanted Marian back for so long, had thought that it would fill that piece of me that I had missing since she died. As it turns out, that piece of me had been missing even when she was alive because the only time I have felt truly complete is when I'm with _you_."

He hears her gasp, her breath wobbling, with what he assumes is emotion, dreads that he may have made tears pool in those rich, mahogany eyes of her. She murmurs, "Robin", as he can sense her dabbing stray wetness from her cheeks, "I'm happy for Roland and for you. You wanted to follow your code and I respect that, give it time-"

A laugh interrupts her, his own laugh, mirthless and humorless in tone, "You know, if I were the man I used to be, the outlaw, the scoundrel, the criminal who heeded the desires of no one but myself, this would be simpler. I would hasten to where you are, challenging any person or element that dared to get in my way, bowling over them all until I reached you, until I could feel your head encased between my hands, me pulling you, you tugging me, until I finally experienced the relief of your lips on mine again."

He opens his mouth, is about to offer apologies for being inappropriate, for the life of him cannot believe that something so crass would bolt off his tongue like a thoroughbred steed galloping through a field, but as he sucks in a dose of fortifying oxygen, she is speaking, regaling his attention as she always has.

"If I were still the Evil Queen, you would have had no one and nothing to defeat, I would have eviscerated them in seconds, all so I could have your body molding against mine, your mouth against mine, your tongue stroking mine."

"Your tongue is quite sensitive, isn't it," He muses, recalling several of their heated exchanges in which she would moan ravenously as he would stroke the underside of hers with his own, delighting in how reactionary she could be without them so much as touching. Robin isn't sure what game this is, but even a loss would be a win, especially if she painted more scenarios such as that, "The outlaw would take that tongue between his teeth, biting it, soothing it, a never-ending pattern."

"Rough, this outlaw," She notes through a heavy breath, edging along the definition of a moan, a sound "The Queen would like that, if you were interested, that is."

"Very interested," Robin groans, his cock twitching in his pants, and, Gods, this would be so much simpler if he were oblivious to how delectable she looked in her royal get-ups. Then again, in loose clothing, her hair tangled, not a speck of makeup on her face, as he assumed she looked now, was still just as gorgeous- maybe even more so because he knows not many have seen her in that way.

He wishes he could see her now.

Oh, but he will happily accept her voice in his ear.

"The Queen would relish in ripping your shirt to shreds, button by button scattering, magic far too tame for her to use. And for every nip the outlaw would give her tongue, it would result in a scratch from her fingernails to his chest, raking down one at a time, stopping just above your hips…"

Robin is absent-mindedly palming the clothed mast in his pants, searching for the release to the tension tightening and winding within him at her words, until he realizes what he is doing, snatching his hand back from his member. He cannot do this to her. Just because she has been the one to awaken the sexual nature within him- something long dormant since Marian's demise in their realm and continues to be since her return, with him denying her advances past chaste kisses, which were usually around the Merry Men or Roland, a spectacle to prove that he was there, upholding his honor as everything inside him was being dragged down to deep, dark descents of depression- does not get him the permission to wank off to during this tete-e-tete.

He opens his mouth to speak again, but he hears it- the telltale rustle of linens, of her muffled whimpers, of the subtle creak of a headboard.

"Regina, are you touching yourself?"

The thought is maddening. He can picture her, lying on her bed, her legs spread apart as her own fingers explore her sensational form, gliding across her skin as he wishes, _dreams_ , of doing with his tongue.

He feels as if his body has been set aflame, as if he is about to combust at any moment.

"What would the outlaw do next?" He can detect the true meaning of her breathy words, pleading with him to continue, to give her, to give them, both, this release- what could be the first, last, and _only_ time for them.

"He would have to reward you, Her Majesty, for those scratches marring his chest, burning him all the way to where he is throbbing for you, aching for you. Removing your clothes, your chest exposed, your nipples tight…"

Robin rucks down his sleeping trousers and his boxer briefs until his erection, solid and pulsing, is unfettered, leaking at the tip already, too overwhelmed with desire, and he begins to stroke it with vigor as Regina's husky, lust-filled voice is in his ear again. If he closes his eyes, shuts them tight, he can almost pretend that she is there, that her breath is tickling his lobe, that she is the one pleasuring him, instead of his own hand.

"The Queen would have you sucking on them, hard. Lavishing her breasts with your tongue, pinching them with your calloused, criminal fingers, until she has her own fingers in your hair, yanking you off- because I can assure you, you would _never_ leave that spot on your own accord."

"And the outlaw wouldn't give a damn, would suck and suck and lick and bite those pretty pink points of yours until you were screaming, showing your precious kingdom how the tongue and 'calloused' fingers of a criminal can reduce the so-called 'Evil Queen' to a lust-drunk, purring kitten."

"She would use her grip in your hair to bring you to your knees, getting wetter as you grimace in agony…"

"The outlaw would smell it, your arousal, would delight in the fact that your sodden panties were because of him, would tear them off with his teeth if he had to, just so he could bury his face in your hot center, drowning him as he'd fuck you with his tongue."

"And the outlaw better fuck Her Majesty good, put those archer fingers and that sharp tongue to use for once, better suck at her clit like your life depends on it because it does!"

"Who cares about a death sentence when the last meal is so delicious? He'd ram his tongue so far up into your heat, curling it just so, keeping you on the edge with nothing but his mouth, never letting you fall."

"I'd- _she_ \- would take matters into her own hands, drawing circles-"

"And with the quick reflexes of a thief, the outlaw would pin your wrists to your sides, continuing to feast on every drop of wetness and you are positively dripping."

Regina doesn't reply, is mewing and mewing and _Ahh! Fuck!,_ crying out, and he knows she's close to coming, obliges with ease, growls, "Then he would grab that magnificent ass of the Queen, until you were almost straddling his face as you stood, and he'd trail his tongue up, up to that swell between your lips, doing your precious circles on it, sucking at it, drawing every moan until your voice is hoarse and you can barely remember your own beautiful name you are coming so hard, so _wet_ , against his 'sharp' tongue."

She tumbles over into an orgasmic abyss, telling him so through strangled words and a whine that he can could have probably heard all the way from the Mayoral mansion without his phone.

After a moment, the Queen returns, still hoarse with arousal and he cannot think of her digits, covered in her juices, in her release, the one his words and those fingers provided her, tiptoeing back to her sensitive, engorged nub, not satisfied enough.

"Her Majesty would use her foot, kicking you to the floor, on your back, every vein in your cock just begging to be touched, to have a Queen touch you, use her mouth on you. And she would make you think that she would, would crawl up your legs, would slide her hands inside of your thighs, enjoying as a simple outlaw can hardly control his wantonness. She would remind you how wet she was, how wet she _is_ , just so her warm breath can hit your cock, just so you can squirm and writhe and _beg_."

Robin has to stop, has to release the hold on his erect body part, his pants too quick, his chest too heavy, his balls too tight, and he'll be damned if he comes yet. So he takes a moment, gulps harshly, then returns with a slow, steady grasp, not just on his cock, but on this altered reality he and Regina have created together.

"I don't want your mouth. I don't want it filled with something so thick, when it could be the one _begging_ to have an outlaw in _you_. When, instead, you could be saying my name over and over as I fuck you with this cock you're on your hands and knees for."

"The Queen would lick you anyway, just one to make your back arch off the ground so she can slide onto you, you're sheathed inside you, the most valuable place you've ever broken into, you lucky thief."

"The outlaw would thrust into you. He would fuck you fast and rough, just the way you like it, the way you _need_ it. You're so damn _tight_ …"

"She would rock you into the floor, make sure you couldn't fire off those precious arrows of yours without being sore, without knowing that a Queen rode you like a whipped stallion, hard and put away wet, from making Her Majesty squeeze and come around your-"

He can't speak, can't breathe, can only feel, feel her imaginary heat surrounding him, constricting him, feel her body driving onto his own, feel every word she has said scorching him from the inside out, his blood a torturous stream of molten pleasure running through him, chasing him to his climax.

"Come, outlaw! Come Robin. Come for me, always for me," It's a biting command, not a gentle request, and, oh, how can he disobey his Queen? He cannot, whether by impulse or choice, and a second or two later, he is groaning, choking, on her name with the intensity of his release, invoking "Regina" over and over again, as if the name of a deity, as the white, hot evidence of his love for the angel whose voice is still panting from the second of her peaks.

 _Gods above, indeed._

If this is the level of pleasure they can experience from narrations of phantom teases, touches, and thrusts, what would happen if they were able to share that skin-to-skin, hip-to-hip, mouth-to-mouth reality?

"Regina-" But she interrupts him before he has the chance to say all the words paused on the tip of his tongue like _I am abandoning my damn code, I will leave Marian as soon as the sun rises, I will come to you and worship you and spread every day, until my last breath, taking you as high, in every aspect of life, as I did tonight._

 _I love you._

"It's too bad we aren't those people anymore, right?"

 _ **Call Ended.**_


End file.
